


Lost and Found

by FrostedFlame (PinkOrchid)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Death, Depression, Grief, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Moving On, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-08 14:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 17,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12256383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkOrchid/pseuds/FrostedFlame
Summary: After John and Mary set up home in married bliss, Sherlock gets lonely and seeks comfort in a relationship with another man - something he never would have tried before John. When things go belly-up in John's new life, he is dismayed to find that his place in Baker Street has been subsumed by someone new. This is the story of how everything had to go to the wall before John can find his way back to Sherlock. JohnLock. Set after Reichenbach and the wedding in TLV, but ignores anything from Season 4 (what season 4? Must have deleted it!).





	1. Interruptus

 

Sherlock bit his lip but couldn't quite hold back a juddering sigh. The head in his lap bobbed once, twice, swallowed him down to the root. So close. Pleasure coiling deep in his groin. Oh, it was so good. _At Last._ He tensed his hands and relaxed them again, kneading the arm rests of his chair like a cat as he focused his incredible mind on the orgasm that was just there. He groaned, long and low and rumbling at the edges, as he lifted one hand to grip at strands of short, blonde hair. His fist closed, firm and possessive, fighting the urge to thrust, _just a little -_

And then there was a sharp, sudden thud of the flat's inner door slamming against the wall, hasty footfalls halting the (so-close) fall into bliss. He flinched, jerking his head to glare at the intruder. _If this was Lestrade again, he'd -_

But it wan't Lestrade. Those boots. He knew those boots. Those corduroy trousers. The legs beneath. He didn't dare raise his eyes higher than the knees. He couldn't bear to see that expression in _those_ eyes.

"John," he whispered.

Sherlock raised his eyes. John's face hit him harder than a roundhouse to the gut. Horror and disbelief, profound sorrow, disappointment, followed each other across his face. Oh, this was bad.

The man between his knees drew back, leaving Sherlock exposed and open to the nip of cool air on spit-slicked skin. Hastily, he fumbled his deflating member back into his briefs, a flurry of motion as he scrambled up, zipping his flies, arms and legs windmilling frantically. But it was too late, John had already turned, was already down the stairs, had reached the outside door, was slamming the door behind him - damnit why wouldn't his legs work?

By the time Sherlock got to the street outside, there was no sign of John. He was gone.

 

 


	2. Answer Your Phone, Brother Mine

There was nothing for it. Sherlock retraced his steps to 221b. Closing the door, he turned towards the stairs. That's when he saw it - a once-familiar olive-green duffel. John's. The position of the bag - lying on its side, poking out from beside the console table - spoke volumes. It was clear it had been slung hastily aside as John entered the building. That spoke of urgency - could have been excitement, perhaps agitation, too soon to tell.

But it was meaningful. Yes, a duffel meant something. It meant this was no casual visit, not a 'just dropped by for a cup of tea' type thing. No, a bag meant an intention to stay... maybe a couple of nights. Sherlock paused and re-evaluated. The bag was full to bursting. A bag that size, stuffed that full - evidence of hasty packing in the misalignment of the fastening - no, John had meant to stay at least a week. Maybe more - John did travel light after all. Maybe – could it be..

_Did John come back? For good? Please God don't say he came back only for me to have ruined things and send him running!_

His heart sank. It felt like the wedding, all over again. Sherlock faced the stairs, deep in thought.

_John, John, John. Where would you go? Not Sarah's. Not Harry's. Why aren't you with Mary?_

Sherlock hastily fished his phone out of his trouser pocket, hitching up the waistband that threatened to slip without his belt. _Where was his belt anyway.. never mind. Irrelevant._

Thumbing the screen, he noticed four missed calls and several texts - all from Mycroft. _Ah. He remembered turning his phone to silent when Richard arrived. Richard didn't appreciate being - interrupted. Oh hell! Richard!_

Sherlock knew a good boyfriend would rush back up and apologise for running off. But the bag. John. He just had to -

He turned his attention back to his smartphone. Four separate calls spoke of more than a passing desire to talk to him. Something important, then. Urgent even. One voicemail. He pressed play.

  
“Pick up your phone, brother mine, it’s important.”

  
Mycroft sounded – Sherlock could hardly credit it, but he sounded – almost upset. Oh, an outsider would not notice anything amiss in his modulated tones, but Sherlock knew better. His brother’s voice in the recording was more unsettled than Sherlock had witnessed in years.

He flicked over to the texts. Three of them. All from Mycroft, the first having arrived over two hours ago.

S _herlock – answer your phone. -MH_

_Brother, it’s about John. Please pick up. -MH_

_Ring me as soon as you get this. There’s been some trouble at the Watson’s. The good Doctor is on his way to you, ETA 15 minutes. -MH_

Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration, cursing the bad timing that made him unknowingly chase John from his door. He needed more data. He stabbed at the screen and held it to his ear, pacing in the small hallway.

Mycroft picked up on second ring.

“It’s alright. We have him. Picked him up two streets over. What happened?”

“Shouldn’t that be my question, brother?”

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock could tell he was pinching the bridge of his nose, in the way he often did when there was bad news to deliver.

“Just spit it out, Mycroft.”

“Doctor Watson –“

“John. His name is John.”

“Very well then. John has asked me to inform you that" another sigh "the baby is not his, that Mary left and took the child with her. And that he really would rather not talk about it. At all. Ever.”

“Left him! She left him! How could she be so idiotic as to- “

“Focus, brother dear. Focus. That’s hardly the point, is it?”

“What is the point then? Do enlighten me.”

“The point is that your ‘friend’, in his hour of need, requested to return to the safe haven of Baker Street, yet cctv showed him, not two minutes later, fleeing like a scalded cat. What did you say to him?”

“I didn’t _say_ anything. I was rather preoccupied at the time. I had.. company.”

“Oh Sherlock!”

“What? What do you mean by ‘Oh Sherlock’?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m sure your ‘company’ is very fulfilling. Congratulations. I’m very happy for you. Your timing, however, might have been better, hmm?”

“Where is John? Send him back!”

“The driver reports that the good Doctor asked to be dropped at a mid-rate hotel near his surgery.”

“But he doesn’t even have his bag. This is ridiculous Mycroft. He doesn’t need to stay at a hotel!”

“Nevertheless, it’s what John seems to want, brother dear. I’ll send someone for the bag. I’m sure he’ll be in touch in a couple of days, when things.. settle.”

Spitefully, Sherlock cut the call without another word, but even the ill-mannered gesture failed to give him joy. He was truly kicking himself for having missed his chance to welcome John back with open arms. And he was growing increasingly concerned for the man, who must surely be hurting over the demise of his marriage. And right in the middle of those two feelings sat a third. God forgive him, he was happy – wildly, inappropriately happy - that Mary was finally gone.

He would give John the night to cool off. Go see him at this dreadful hotel in the morning. Until then – well, he supposed he had some apologies to make upstairs.

 


	3. Who's Stroppy Now?

“What do you mean, not in the mood? You were doing fine until we were interrupted.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot, Richard.”                                                               

 

“Oh,  _fine_ , I’ll just go to bed then. Don’t mind me. I’m just your boyfriend. Your  _idiot_  boyfriend. Whatever.”

 

“Oh for - you knew what I was like before you got into this. I’ve already appologised for running out, which is more than most would get. So please – stop stomping around like a prepubescent teen and go to bed. I will follow you shortly. Just read a book or something. Or better still, make us a cup of tea.”

 

“You can make your own damned tea.”

 

Sherlock winced as the door slammed hard enough to wake Mrs Hudson. He had to admit it was – usually – quite nice to have, well, a  _boyfriend_. Certainly unexpected, after all this time. But sometimes – he secretly had to wonder if it was actually worth the fuss. It was usually his job to slam doors and flounce elegantly. He rolled his eyes. Since when had  _he_ become the 'reasonable' one?

 

He sighed and got up to make some tea.


	4. Missing in Action

“Where is he?” The words curled in the hard, sharp shape of a snarl.

 

“Good morning, brother dear. I am well thank you, and how are you today? How nice to see your charming self again. Do sit down.”

 

Mycroft gave a curt nod to dismiss the security personnel who had been swept up in the wake of his brother’s swirling coat.

 

Sherlock slammed one fist on the expensive panelled desk for emphasis.

 

“I have no time for your tedious flippancy, Mycroft. Where is he? And don’t give me any more nonsense about  _hotels_. I have searched every hotel within a 5 mile radius of the clinic. He. Is. Not. There. So I repeat – where is John?”

 

Mycroft’s sigh was epic. Sherlock hated that sigh. He flung himself bitterly into a chair.

 

“He is safe, Sherlock. I assure you.”

 

“Not what I asked.”

 

“And has it never occurred to you that he might not  _want_ you to know where he is?”

 

“Ridiculous!”

 

“Alright then. Deduce it. Isn’t that what you do? You hardly need  _me_  to tell you, surely.”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Across the desk his brother/arch-enemy met his fury head on, without so much as a twitch.

 

Eyes locked, they stared at each other, point and counterpoint made in minute movements of lips, slight bunching of eyebrows, tightening of muscles in the corners of eyes.

 

“Impossible!” breathed Sherlock, after a moment.

 

“And yet.. there it is.”

 

“Why? Why would he be at your place? He doesn’t even  _like_  you!”

 

 “Indeed.”

 

“Why? What do you plan to do with him?” Sherlock’s voice was flat and dangerous as a blade.

 

"Well," drawled Microft, "it's not as if  _you_  had a prior claim."

 

The blade got sharper. Sherlock's made sure to enunciate clearly. 

 

"What are you doing with John?"

 

“Nothing, I assure you. Nothing of  _that_ nature at least. I like John - quite a lot actually, for a goldfish. But nowhere near enough to contemplate the sharing of  _bodily_   _fluids_.”

 

Microft’s face screwed itself up, as if the words were something nasty he had found on the bottom of his shoe. Sherlock glared some more. After another minute of staring, Microft sighed again.

 

“Brother, I couldn’t very well let him go to a hotel. He was in – rather a state. I am very fond of the good Doctor, you know. In my own way. I was concerned and felt he should not be alone. And as he couldn’t very well return to Baker Street.. I did what I felt was best. After all – who else does he have to turn to? Harry? No I don’t think so, do you?”

 

“You. Concerned.”

 

“Yes, as it turns out. It does occasionally happen you know.”

 

“Well, I’m here now. Give him back.”

 

“Ah.”

 

Sherlock’s glare intensified.

 

“Sherlock.. despite my best efforts in persuading your doctor to return to 221b, he is – shall we say, rather unconvinced of his welcome.”

 

“Don’t be preposterous, Mycroft!”

 

“Sherlock, when I asked John where he’d like to go, after the business with Mary, ah, concluded, he didn’t hesitate. All he wanted was to return to Baker Street, to you. He said he just wanted to go home. He probably expected to find you elbow-deep in lambs livers or pacing the floors waiting for a murderer to make a mistake. Just like old times.”

 

Mycroft’s eyes softened imperceptibly.

 

“Instead, he walked in on a very different scene, one he was in no way prepared for."

 

"Oh - so now it's my fault, is that what you're saying? That I should have stayed behind sad and alone, waiting? Missed my chance at something for _myself_ for once, is that it?" he spat - mortified to discover that his voice was not quite under his control.

He glared twice as hard to compensate for the damned  _sentiment_  bleeding into the room. There was no way bloody Mycroft wouldn't notice. 

 

"No Sherlock, nobody is suggesting for a moment that you should have foregone a chance at _happiness_." Mycroft's mouth expelled the word as if it personally distressed him to say it.

 

"But do imagine it from John's perspective, would you? He doubtless came to you in quite a state. Obviously seeking comfort, familiarity, acceptance. Only to realise that the ‘home’ he took so much for granted had moved on without him - as it had every right to do, but a shock nonetheless. He came to the rapid conclusion that he might perhaps not be as welcome as he had once been. That while he was away playing happy families, time did not stand still in 221b. The effect this train of thought had upon him was – rather disturbing to watch, if I may say so.”

 

“Let me talk to him, then. I’ll  _make_  him understand.”

 

“Sherlock – I think in this case, you may need to give him time. He’s not ready to see you. To face the crumbling of what he assumed was the one thing he could count on not having changed. Having this.. Richard fellow .. in the picture, it changes things. Surely even you can see that?”

 

“No, I don’t. I don’t  _see that_.”

 

“Oh Sherlock. You must trust me on this. I will work on Doctor Watson and persuade him to come back – but it will take some time. It is my fault for allowing him to be delivered to Baker Street when I could not contact you to forewarn you of his intent.”

 

Sherlock leapt from the chair in consternation.

 

“But why were _you_ there in the first place? It makes no sense! What business did you have in ‘allowing’ John do to anything? What is going on, Mycroft? Surely the breakup of one more suburban marriage did not need to awaken the might of the British Government?”

 

“You know who Mary was, her past. Do you for one minute think we wouldn’t have her under almost constant surveillance? Considering her career, the list of enemies, the possibility of her turning on John herself, do you think we would have simply turned the other cheek? Oh no, we have been keeping a  _very_  close eye on the Watson household. When things began to.. fall apart.. my team alerted me and I came.”

 

“There’s more to this. Oh, I can’t tell what, insufficient data – but you’re keeping something from me. I know you Mycroft. What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask John, brother mine. It’s his story to tell. Or not. In the meantime.. I will talk to him, do what I can to persuade him of your wish to have him back in Baker Street. But contrary to popular belief, I do have actual work to do. The country won't run itself. So if that is all, Sherlock, I’m sure you can see yourself out.”

 

Sherlock’s glower showed how very far from satisfied he was. But he  _did_  know his brother, and he knew when it was futile to push. Swirling his black coat around him, he left as swiftly as he had arrived. Much as he hated the thought, he’d just have to wait – and trust  _bloody Mycroft_ to work on John for now.

 


	5. Soldier's Return

Sherlock's eyes were fixed on a spot just over Richard's left shoulder. Richard knew there was nothing there worthy of attention, it just meant Sherlock was distracted. And uncomfortable - definitely uncomfortable about _something_. Richard had learned a lot of Sherlock-isms over the past few months. 

"Mycroft texted. John's arriving tomorrow," Sherlock said, in a trying-too-hard-to-be-nonchalant kind of way. 

Fortunately, Richard could see right through that. 

"Oh? That's nice." He paused. "Took a while. Nearly a month, no word until now."

Richard's eyes lifted to flick over Sherlock's absent gaze, then focused back on the steam rising from his morning cup of tea. 

"Well, he's been through a lot."

Richard gave a non-committal hum. 

"Listen, it might be best -"  

"If I made myself scarce?"

'Yes. If you don't mind.'

"By all means. Can't scare the straight man, can we?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped away from their death stare at the wall. 

"You know that's not what I meant."

"No, but it's what it feels like, Sherlock. I'm not some sordid secret to be put back in a box every time soldier boy comes visiting."

Sherlock's spine straightened imperceptibly. 

"I'm not for one minute suggesting -" 

"No, no. You're right. It's fine. I've some stuff to do back at mine. Not like I live here anyway."

"You know full well we're not  _that_. Not yet. Don't make this about you moving in here. It's got nothing to do with that."

"Got it. Loud and clear. Not moving in. But I still don't see why he has to move in either. I mean, it's not like you  _need_   a flatmate any more. You're making more than enough to cover the rent, even without your brother's help. And you hardly need the company. Not now. Not when you have me."

Richard's voice sounded perfectly normal. He calmly continued to eat his toast. Everything he said sounded so  _reasonable._ It was hateful!

"This is different. This is John's home. He will always have a place here."

" _W_ _as_ his home, you mean. He left. He hasn't lived here for what - two years? I just don't get why you think you owe him -"

"Because he's my  _friend_ ," and oh, that came out a little too loudly, didn't it?

Richard sighed. 

"Of course he's your friend," he said, a little sadly. "Just, friends accept you for who you are. You weren't exactly 'out' last time he lived here, were you? If you feel you have to hide a part of yourself for him, well. I worry. That's all."

He placed his hand on top of Sherlock's and gave a squeeze.

"I assure you, I am hiding  _nothing_ ," Sherlock ground out, before removing his hand and bringing his tea to the window as Richard made ready to leave.  

***

Sherlock sawed his bow idly across the strings of his violin, eyes fixed on the square of pavement below. They were late and Sherlock was anxious. Was he anxious? Why was he anxious?

The spat with Richard over breakfast the day before was refusing to be quietly cataloged in his Mind Palace. It floated around like a niggling worm, burrowing in.

He wished Mycroft’s car would just get here, get it over with. Whatever way it went, it was bound to be bloody awkward. Sherlock was antsy, without knowing quite why. For once, he had no idea how John would react. In his fit of nervousness, he had even gone so far as to order in John’s favourite biscuits, clear out all the contraband cigarettes, and even made sure the flat was clean – not that he did the work himself, mind, but it’s amazing what twenty quid and a bottle of scotch and one of his network can do.

This was ridiculous. If they didn’t get here soon he’d have to resort to pacing. Stupid sentiment!

Finally, the ubiquitous black car slid to a halt at the pavement. Sherlock took a breath, pulled his shoulders back, putting his bow arm to good use by throwing himself midway into a Brahms Sonata.

Footsteps, on the stairs, two pairs. John and – good heavens, Mycroft himself. What was _he_ doing here? Sherlock put on his best aggrieved pout and waited for the door to open – and kept waiting. _What?_ The footsteps continued on up the stairs, didn’t even pause outside the sitting room door. _Well – that was unexpected._ But there was no way Sherlock was going to deign to mount the stairs himself, uninvited.

_Nope. Not going to - oh. Well, I’m here now. Might as well knock._

He pushed the door open without waiting for a reply. Mycroft was leaning against the dresser, eyes raised warily towards the door. John was - with his usual bland efficiency – putting away his clothes. They weren’t speaking, everything seemed calm and ordinary. But his brother’s very presence was sending warning flags up and down Sherlock’s spine. Mycroft could very well be doing this simply out of spite, knowing how Sherlock felt about him. But it was a well known fact that John didn’t even like the ‘minor official in the British Government’. Never had. He certainly wouldn’t want him in his _bedroom._

Sherlock turned his gaze on John, noting the wrinkles in his clothes – atypical for John, who was normally fastidious about his ironing. And there was something decidedly _off_ about John. He was – dull. Oh, not dull as in ordinary, John always _appeared_ to be ordinary, even when he was not. No – it was as if some light had gone out, leaving the room that bit less brilliant than before.

“John?”

“Sherlock.” His voice was wrong, too. Flat. Emotionless.

“Everything ok?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Except it wasn’t. It wasn’t ok. It was the very opposite of ok, because John was looking at him but not _seeing_ him – and this, this was unacceptable. What should he say? Surely he should say something? God, this was excruciating!

“Tea?”

John’s eyes shot up. There – at least that was a reaction. Good.

“No thank you.”

“John – are you – is everything –“

“Fine. I’m fine Sherlock. It’s all fine.”

The pause was agonising. Mycroft finally shifted a little and hemmed a cough.

“Well, I’d best leave you to it. John – you have my number.”

_Why? Why would John need Mycroft’s number? Oh God – they weren’t – dating – were they? No, John wasn’t gay. And Mycroft – ugh._

He shuddered violently. Mycroft’s pale eyes flicked over him as he passed.

“Wrong, as ever, brother dear.” And was gone.

As the front door closed behind him, John glanced up at Sherlock again.

“I wanted to ask – I should have said earlier – I mean - are you sure this is ok?”

“Sure what is ok?” For once Sherlock was genuinely confused.

“Me. Staying here. It wont be for long, I won’t get in the way, I –“

“No – no John. This is – it’s your home. You are not in the way of anything! I – really want you to stay.”

_You belong here,_ his heart urged. But he could hardly say that to John, so he swallowed down the words, hot and sharp in his gullet.

“Thank you.” The words were soft, almost whispered, and John’s face was suddenly crumpling and – God, Sherlock couldn’t breathe and what was this, why couldn’t he understand this emotion?

But less than two seconds later, John had left the room. The bathroom door clicked shut. All he could hear was the water running in the sink. It went on for ages.

Sherlock went back to the sitting room and continued where he left off with the Brahms.


	6. Settling

 

Much like the infamous dust experiment, the process of John settling back into 221b was long and full of random patterns of unseen particles colliding. If anyone had bothered to ask Sherlock, which they didn’t, he would have told them he just wanted everything to go back to the way they had been. Before. (By which, he meant, before Mary, before the wedding, before he jumped off a roof. _Before Richard,_ his traitorous mind added, before that thought was ruthlessly pushed aside.)

The sheer bloody awkwardness of the first two weeks (and God, hadn’t _they_ been horrific), had lapsed into something less fraught. Although it was still a little stilted whenever Richard was staying over. It took a while before John stopped asking before entering the common areas, before his personal effects found a home on the bathroom shelves. But even now, more than a month past his return, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel that John was decidedly not himself.

Oh, he'd found another job – locum work at a surgery not far from Baker Street. He’d wanted a clean break from the clinic where he and Mary had worked, obviously. The ex-army-doctor went through the motions of a normal life. He worked. He came home. He cooked his meals. He showered and went to bed. But it felt – empty. As if he found no pleasure in it. Sherlock didn’t like it. He wondered how long it might be before things would, finally, settle?

**

“He’s a bit – well, quiet, isn’t he? Was he always like that?

“What do you mean, quiet?” Sherlock sighed, a touch distracted by the book he had balanced on his thigh and was vainly trying to read. He felt Richard’s warmth engulf his shoulders, arms wrapped around him while leaning over the back of the kitchen chair.

“He just sort of.. floats around the place. All silent and sorrowful. Hasn’t much to say for himself, that sort of thing. At least when I’m here. Is he different when it’s just the two of you?”

“Hmm..” Sherlock considered the question, one long pale finger marking his place in the book.

“No, not really. I guess he’s never been much of a talker. But he has been a bit – distant lately. Not surprising, really, considering.”

“I suppose you have a point. So, he never talks about it – about the breakup or any of it?”

“No. Not a word,” Sherlock replied, casting about to remember even one single conversation that hadn’t been about the mundane practicalities of sharing a flat. It wasn’t a nice thing to realise.

Richard made a non-committal noise and moved off to make some toast. Sherlock went back to his book, although even he had to admit that his mind was now wandering. Not much progress would be made in his reading tonight.

**

The thump, thump, thump of two pairs of booted feet rang in the stairwell. Flushed, laughing, Sherlock and Richard burst into the flat, a tangled mass of arms and legs, kissing deeply. John was at the surgery today, excellent! Richard hadn’t been staying over half as much since John moved back in. Understandably so. But there’d been a distinct lack of spontaneous sex going on even when he did, since privacy was not guaranteed - one side-effect of having a flatmate again that Sherlock could have done without. He’d been celibate for a very long time, and he was enjoying being able to indulge his new-found libido. And impromptu sex was – _lovely_!

They shuffled quickly backwards across the room until Sherlock could plop down into his elegant leather chair, pulling Richard’s lean frame into his lap, lips never leaving their purchase on his mouth. God, Richard was a lovely kisser. The corner of Sherlock's lips curled up in a smile around the kiss as he craftily retrieved the bottle of lube wedged down the side of the chair. Richard chuckled, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands.

“You dirty boy,” he murmured, voice pitched low and sultry.

“Oh. Ehm. Ah. Sorry, I’ll just, um, I’ll..”

Sherlock twitched like a startled cat, breaking the kiss, his pale eyes swivelling towards the unexpected sound. John – who was evidently not at work and who had clearly come from the floor above - was pointedly _not_ looking at them. His stance was military-stiff and his face had passed cherry and was swiftly heading for a strong shade of tomato. Without another word, he did an abrupt about-turn on the bottom stair and fled back up to his room.

“Thought you said he was at work today?” the voice had, unfortunately, lost its sultry edge, bleeding over into accusatory and just plain annoyed.

“He was, at least – he was supposed to be!” Sherlock snarled.

“Oh great. Just great. There goes the first shag in over a week, then. Ta very bloody much!”'

“Hardly my fault!”

“No, but you still object to staying at my place even though we get _no_ time together here any more!”

“I like it here. I have my experiments to tend to and – I can’t think properly at yours. Not without all my” – he waved his hand elegantly around the sitting room – “stuff.”

“But he’s _always here_!” Richard shouted, indignantly. “Hanging about, putting a damper on everything. All that bloody _moping_ , he’s hardly the first bloke to have been kicked to touch – it’s been over a month. It’s pathetic, really pathetic!”

His voice kept rising, he slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair in emphasis. Things were escalating. Sherlock couldn't be sure but he suspected John could hear every word they were saying. 

“Richard, keep your voice down!” 

There was an edge to his voice that Richard had learned to heed. But right now, he was just too damn angry to care. 

“What, afraid he’ll hear me? Well news flash. I. Don’t. Care! He’s ruining everything!”

“This conversation is _over,”_ Sherlock hissed. “We are not talking about this now!”

Richard hauled himself off Sherlock’s lap and huffed his way to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Sherlock eyed his retreating form warily. He didn’t like making his _boyfriend_ (the word still sat uneasily on his tongue) unhappy. But this was John’s home too, and the second time he had walked in on them getting… amorous. It was clear it made John feel uncomfortable. Richard too. Maybe he’d better put up with a few nights in Richard’s place, it was obvious he was feeling – neglected.

Not to mention he had been looking forward to that shag.

He’d pack a bag after he’d had his tea.

**

John wasn’t home when he got back from his three-day stay at Richard’s, tired and shagged-out, but glad to be back in grace.

John didn’t come home until after midnight, making an effort to be quiet on the stairs. Sherlock, reclining on his bed with his laptop, still heard him. Not that he stayed awake listening. Not really. He noted that John’s gait was uneven. Not the sloppy listing common with over-indulgence in booze, though. Instead it sounded rhythmically lop-sided. As if his limp had returned.

**

It was like living with a ghost.

"He's just jealous," Richard would say. "Looking for attention. Ignore it. I don't know why you bother." 

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to argue, but he didn't want to believe it came down that - an objection to Sherlock having found someone to - well not love, not yet, but intensely like, he supposed. He gnawed at a snagging nail, considering his options.  _Talking_ hadn’t helped, though he'd genuinely tried. John was barely home during the day and when he was there, well, he didn’t linger. He brushed off all attempts to engage in conversation. Gave the stock answer of ‘fine, thanks’, whenever Sherlock attempted to ask how he was. Left the room if Sherlock looked like persisting. This was not the John he remembered. What the hell was he even _doing_ up in his room all the time?

However shut-down John was in their daily interactions, he was worse whenever Richard was there. Oh, he smiled, said hello. But the smile was a pale, painful thing. A grimace, even.

It was painful. Watching a man you cared for slowly but efficiently disappear.

He was going to have to call in reinforcements. 

 


	7. Conversations (1)

Sherlock adjusted the dial on the microscope for what felt like the thousandth time. This was  _boring_. He had embraced the familiar steel and formaldehyde of Bart’s morgue this morning, but this was taking far too long already.

_Where the hell was – oh! Finally!_

“Sherlock.”

“Molly.”

He allowed his lips to twitch into a small but sincere kind of smile and shifted his body one quarter turn away from the microscope to signal a willingness to engage in conversation. Body language was useful for this kind of thing – at least when under conscious control (which even for Sherlock, was not always guaranteed).

Molly seemed genuinely happy to see him, without any of the simpering and twittering that had once been common. Things had changed between them after he’d jumped. Somewhere between the nights spent hiding out on her couch and the incessant talking about _feelings_ , they’d found a new dynamic. He was occasionally nostalgic for his previous ability to fluster and charm. He’d certainly enjoyed the lab privileges, body parts and copious cups of coffee, while they lasted. But, on the whole, this new Molly, the quietly competent one, was by far a better ally.

 _Friend_ , he reminded himself. He looked at her, seeing how composed and confident she was. No makeup today, but hair recently done and clothes less severe than they once had been. She looked – happy.

_See, she did it. Moved on. People do, don’t they. Why can’t -_

He stopped that train of thought before it got to John again, always John. That particular conversation wasn’t the one he needed to have with Molly.

“New case?” she asked, nodding at the slides laid out on the bench.

“No – tying up loose ends. Not particularly interesting.”

“Not like you to waste time in here on dull things these days! Richard out of town?”

“No. No, he’s – we’re – “

His face scrunched as he floundered for an opening to the John Problem. This kind of thing was so not his area. But Molly gave pretty good advice. She was insightful, and she knew John. Knew Richard too.

“Oh God, you haven’t broken up have you?” she blurted, considering the pained look as the detective floundered for words.

“No! We’re fine. It’s all fine.”

“Ok. So.. ?”

“Hmm?”

“Sherlock, you have your ‘ _Oh God we need to talk about feelings’_ face on. I should think I recognise it after all this time!”

The gentle nudge of her shoulder against his took any lingering sting out of the words. He couldn’t quite suppress a smile.

“Molly, I could use your advice.”

“Yes, of course. Always. Something to do with Richard?”

“No, well yes but only tangentially.. “

She pulled up a stool, sat facing Sherlock and smiled.

“Alright then. Tell me how I can help.”

“It’s... John,” he began. “What? You’re making a face now. Why is your face like that?”

Molly had indeed pulled a grimace. She huffed a breath and made a concerted effort to rearrange her features.

“Back to John again, are we?”

“Well, yes. I’m worried about him.”

“Worried? How?”

“Something’s not right, Molly. He hasn’t been himself since he moved back in. He barely talks. I’m not convinced he’s even eating. It's awkward when Richard is there, John disappears for hours on end. And so sad, all the time. It’s – he won’t tell me what’s wrong,” Sherlock’s voice became a touch more manic.

“I can’t fix him, Molly, if I don’t know what is wrong in the first place!”

Molly bit her lip.

“Sherlock.. I’m sure he’ll be fine. He probably just needs some time.”

She paused. John was always a sensitive topic with Sherlock. You had to tread carefully. But – he did come for advice, maybe he would listen all the way through this time. It was worth a shot.

“You do know,” she began hesitantly, “you’re not responsible for fixing him, don’t you? I mean – I get it that he’s your friend -“

“ _Best_ friend.” The words took no prisoner.

“Yes, alright, best friend even. And I know you care about him. But – hasn’t it occurred to you that has a perfectly good apartment of his own now Mary’s gone. Why isn’t he staying there? Or for that matter, why doesn’t he sell it and rent a flat himself. He can probably afford one now.”

Sherlock looked genuinely aghast.

“But 221b is his _home_ Molly!”

“No, Sherlock. It’s _your_ home. He left it while you were gone - a long time ago. And quite frankly after the way he treated you, I’m surprised you ever opened the door to him again.”

“But -”

“No, Sherlock, don’t you remember what it was like? Because I do. After the wedding, when he dropped you? Or for that matter, how he's treated you ever since you came back. Blowing hot and cold. Always so angry. It isn’t _fair_ Sherlock.”

“I – I thought you _liked_ John.”

“I did. I _do_. But – isn’t it just a little strange that you finally move on – “

“Move on? Move. On. What – that – I didn’t ‘move on’ anywhere, there was nothing from which to move!”

“Oh don’t kid yourself for one second! _Everyone_ knew you had feelings for him Sherlock, didn’t take a genius to work that one out!  And then you finally do move on and suddenly, well, your conveniently divorced ex-flatmate turns up and parks himself right back in the middle again.”

“John’s not in the middle. What middle? I don’t – and there was no divorce –“

“What about Richard, then? What does he think?”

“Richard is _fine_ about it.”

“Is he? Really? So you two haven’t fought about John being back at all then?”

Damn Molly for being _too_ insightful sometimes.

“A little.”

Sherlock was obviously reluctant, but he continued, voice softer than before.

“Richard thinks John is just moping around, dragging things down. But he doesn’t – not really. I mean, he’s sad, yes, and well – hurting. But you can’t expect – Well. Maybe it hasn’t been all fun and games there lately. And – well, it does make it a bit awkward at times. Impossible to have a proper conversation some days. It would be idiotic to expect it to be the same as before John moved back in. And there’s - you know. The sex thing. It – it seems to embarrass John. And that makes me self-conscious. Thinking about – well, noises… And things.”

He flapped his hand distractedly, blushing pink.

“You know, thinking about what he might be hearing. And. Well. That part isn’t ideal.”

Molly let that one go.

“Do you think Richard is jealous?” she asked.

“He has no reason to be. John and I were never a couple.”

Molly sighed again.

“Sherlock, all the time I’ve known you, not once were you in a relationship. Then John came along and – well, it looked like he was it for you. No, don’t argue. It’s true. Except it never – you never.. well. And then he was gone and you were so miserable. He was making you miserable. You relapsed, for goodness sake! And then Richard happened. And suddenly you were smiling. Laughing. Like a whole different person. A happy one. It was nice.”

She put her hand over his on the counter.

“Don’t throw that away! Not for a man who can’t ever give you what you need. Believe me- I have been that person and it really isn’t fun!”

“That’s not what this is about Molly. I’m worried about my _friend._ ”

“But don’t you see? You’re putting him before your _boyfriend_. That says something whether you mean it to or not. Richard seems a lovely man. But he’s flesh and blood just like the rest of us. He needs to know he comes first. Everyone in a relationship wants that. If you keep pushing him aside for John then – he’ll get the message sooner or later. And it’ll be too late to take it back!”

She paused, glanced at his stricken face, then continued in a voice that was quiet but utterly sincere.

“You are my friend and I care for you. I’ve seen you jump off a building for that man and all he did was hate you for it. God, you _deserve_ to be happy, Sherlock. Don’t let John come between you and Richard, no matter how good a friend you may want to be.”

Sherlock said nothing, just stared at his hands as Molly sighed, stood and gathered her files, patted his arm once, and quietly left the room. 

 

 


	8. Conversations (2)

“Sherlock, I’m a bit busy here, can’t this wait?”

“Busy being incompetent, you mean.”

“Oi, don’t start.”

Sherlock mumbled something inaudible.

“What did you say?”

“I _said_ I need your help.”

“Come again?”

“You heard me!”

Sherlock glared at Lestrade, which actually wasn’t that unusual. But the signature glare was lacking somewhat in ferocity. He didn’t look like he was in one of his usual strops. He looked – worried. That was enough to give Greg pause.

“Alright Sherlock. What’s the matter?”

“Have you noticed anything – different – about John?”

“Different how?”

“For starters, he’s sad. All the time. Never makes eye contact. Doesn’t speak unless spoken to. Doesn’t even shout at me any more – not even when I set off that stink bomb in the kitchen last week. He’s just not himself, Gavin.”

“It’s Greg! As you well know!”

“Alright, Greg. Seriously, I’m worried. You’re his friend too and I know you’ve met for drinks a few times this month. Has he said anything to you? I need to know what can I do to – I don’t know – help him. There has to be something. Come on - you’re supposed to be good at this kind of thing.”

“Well, he has had rather a shock I suppose.”

“But that was _months_ ago. Can’t still be about Mary!”

Sherlock glanced up, meeting Greg’s look of bemusement.

“Bit not good?” he asked, a little unsure.

“Well, maybe. Look, it’s not our place to tell John when to stop feeling bad about things, alright. He feels how he feels.”

“But has he spoken to you about how he feels? What has he said?”

“No, Sherlock. He hasn’t. John is – well, he’s a private sort of guy. He’s been through a lot. He never was one for sharing, was he?”

Greg paused, thinking.

“He – you don’t think he’s depressed or anything, do you?” the DI asked.

“What do you mean? How would I know?”

“Well, he has got a history of it. After the war, before he met you. He wasn’t exactly well back then, was he?”

“We never knew him then.”

“No – but – a bloke can read between the lines. He was – well, let’s say he wasn't anywhere near 'alright'. Might be prone to it. Have a pre-disposition. You know?”

Sherlock remembers their first week living together. Remembers the gun. Remembers his deductions not quite voiced aloud about the things John might have done with that gun had he not found.. something more interesting to do. He drew a sharp breath in. Perhaps Lestrade had a point.

“But – what can I do? Make him see a therapist? Well, I suppose a therapist might know what to do. But his last one was terrible. Not her.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything you _can_ do, mate. Truth be told, I tried to help a few weeks back and it didn’t go down very well. Maybe it was just too soon.”

“What did you do?”

“I thought maybe it was time he got back in the saddle.”

“Equestrian pursuits? Why on earth would –“

“No, you berk! I mean go out on a date! With a nice woman. Bring back the old ‘Three Continents Watson’.”

“And..?”

“Well, I gave him the number of one of Chrissie’s old friends from uni, we were sure he’d take to her like a house on fire. She’s one fit bird, and bendy too, big into yoga. She’d read his blog, so she knew what she was getting into, and was still keen to meet him.”

“So? What happened?”

“Well, he just stood there. Doing that fist-chenchy thing he does, grinding his teeth. Like he he’s about to punch me. Not a word at first. I was a bit worried for a minute or two. Then he looked at me, shook his head, eyes all sad like, and says thanks but no. That he doesn’t have anything to offer, or something along those lines. Says he’s done. Plain done. For good. And that he gets that it was well intentioned, but if I value our friendship, not to try that _ever_ again.”

“Done?” Sherlock mouthed. “What did he mean, _done_?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, mate. I took it to mean he wasn’t going to be dating again any time soon. So I guess that’s not the answer. But you're right - it's not like him.”

“Hmm.”

"Listen, I'll call and arrange to meet at the weekend, see if I can't get him to open up a little after a few beers. See what I can do, eh? But I'm sure he'll come right in time."

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to feel about what he'd just learned. On the one hand, a not-dating John Watson was something he’d dreamt of for years. On the other – a not-dating John Watson was a new and rather alarming proposition. What did it  _mean?_  

He left NSY barely any wiser than when he arrived. This wasn’t helping at all.


	9. Conversations (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for long delay in posting.. muse is being elusive lately but thanks for all the comments!

Sherlock rolled over, frustrated at the placement of the bed – too far to the left of the window, light hitting entirely the wrong spot – and the softness of the pillows – feather-filled, overly soft, barely any support. He shifted the expensive feather duvet that never quite covered his feet. It was impossible to get comfortable.

“Sherlock – stop fidgeting or get out of bed!”

“See? This is why I don’t stay over. Your bed was made for a pygmy! My feet stick out! And this bloody pillow is suffocating me!”

He gave it a few hard thumps to punctuate his message.

“Alright I think the pillow has had enough. Oi – _enough_ I said! Com’ere!”

He pulled the long-suffering pillow from Sherlock’s punishing grip and threw it towards the door. Then he hauled the dark-haired man across the bed, so that his head could nestle more comfortably on Richard’s chest.

“What’s up, big guy?”

“Oh, do _not_ call me that!”

“You love it really!”

“No I – “ Sherlock settled for an indignant huff.

“Really though, what’s got you all huffy and puffy tonight?”

“I am not the wolf in some asinine fairy story””

“No. But you are acting like somebody put a pea under your mattress.”

“What? You’re making no sense!”

“Well since I’m making no sense, how about you talk some sense instead? You’ve been itching and twitching all day. What’s up?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. Then let it out slowly. He decided to be brave.

“Listen, I know it can’t have been easy having John back at the flat.”

“Ok…"

“Well, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t feeling.. left out.”

“Left out? No. Why would I be feeling left out? Unless - is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No, not at all. But I am aware that things have been a bit … tense since he came back.”

“Well, it’s not ideal, no. Having him there _is_ a bit much sometimes. I know he’s your friend. But it feels as if sometimes he isn’t even trying - like he enjoys being miserable. It’s not as if staying at Baker Street seems to be doing him any good anyway, is it? He’s not exactly happy there, either.”

“No, not happy, exactly.”

“And then – well, never mind.”

“No – tell me. Please.”

“Well, it’s obvious he’s not comfortable with me around.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Little things. How he purses his lips and leaves the room when I walk in."

"Go on - what else?"

"Well, you might not have noticed but he doesn't like it when I touch you. I mean, the minute I put my hands on you he either jumps up and starts banging about in the kitchen or he runs away to his room. It’s just – a bit hurtful. To feel judged like that. I get enough of it from strangers, you know?”

Sherlock scoffed.

“You can’t honestly think John Watson is a homophobe!”

“Can’t I? The last time he walked in on us cuddling he fell over his own feet, he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Or how about last week when he found us snogging in the hall. He looked as if he was about to vomit. I’m telling you, he really isn’t comfortable with even a hint of a PDA. Besides – you’re the one who told me how much he hated the pair of you being called a couple before he went off to get married. Insisting he wasn't gay. Only two reasons for someone to go to such lengths. Either they have something to hide or they can’t stomach the idea of two men together.”

"Now you're being -"

"Do not dare finish that sentence Sherlock Holmes!"

So he didn't. He found a much better use for his mouth, instead.

 

 

 


	10. Conversations (4)

"Poor man, he's bound to be a bit down about things now, isn't he? I mean..  he did marry in haste, for sure. I told him, I said 'so soon after Sherlock?', but he was having none of it. I did try to warn him, but well, he was in a terrible place back then. Probably latched on to the first person who showed an interest. That woman, she certainly was able to pull his strings, wasn't she. I think for a while she even had  _me_ fooled! And oh, the lies! The killings! And to let him think he was going to be a father, and then take it away? Oh, it doesn't bear thinking about.."

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally, loathe to disturb Mrs Hudson's stream of verbiage as she set the kitchen to rights. He had been only half listening, truth be told.That is, until he realised the topic had shifted to none other than John. 

"And then," she continued, "to have finally come back to Baker Street. After all that time spent apart, it's like some great romance novel isn't it? Reminds me of my Frank and that time he left - for good he said - but only got as far as the train station before he came to his senses, and oh if he didn't sweep me off my feet when he came dashing up the avenue. Broke two cups, he did, he was that enthusiastic - my mother's best china too. But it was worth it!" 

She sighed, rubbing just a bit harder at the stubborn stain on the table.

"Poor John, though. I feel for him, to come back but find he's too late, what with you having found your nice boy Richard. Oh he's a lovely one, Sherlock and no mistake. But - well. I can see John's taken it hard. Stands to reason, doesn't it, no matter how happy you are now, it has to be hard for him to see.. "

"What do you mean," Sherlock interrupted, impatiently, "taking it hard? We were not - Mrs Hudson, how many times? We were  _never_ \- in that kind of relationship!"

"Oh well, whatever you say, dearie, live and let live, I always say. But that boy always looked at you like you'd hung the moon, whether you called it a relationship or not!" 

Mrs Hudson broke off from her scrubbing to give him a fond look. 

"I'm just saying," she continued, "he's bound to be feeling it. Be patient with him, Sherlock. He's lost - well, everything," she said, shaking her head pittyingly, before giving up on that blasted stain and turning around to make some tea. 

 


	11. Turning Point

Sherlock stayed in his chair long after Mrs Hudson had gone, mulling over her words. Oh, not that he gave any credence to her frankly fanciful ideas about John having difficulty 'getting over' him. No, he was all too aware that they were never _that._ But perhaps part of what she said deserved consideration. It was true that John was reacting poorly to Richard's presence in Sherlock's life. 

Sherlock thought about  John's face walking in on them. John's absence after that first time seeing him with Richard. John's awkward, passive-aggressive avoidance of Richard. John's face... John's face... John's _face_. 

_Oh god. He can't stand to look at me being with a man, can he? Richard was right. Molly too. We - I - disgust him._

The thought seared through the hallway leading to John's room in his Mind Palace, leaving ashes in its wake. And just like that, the bottom fell out of his world. 

\--

Sherlock watched John out of narrowed eyes. John wouldn't meet his gaze.  _Time for an experiment._ As John moved towards the kitchen to make some tea, Sherlock placed himself directly in front of the kettle. Back in the days before the 'fall', this would have prompted a swift verbal admonition, followed by a 92% chance of John putting his hands on Sherlock's person, should he deign not to move. 

"Erm. Can you move please? I need to use the kettle."

Sherlock glared. But did not move. 

"Sherlock!"

He stood his ground. 

John glared back for 5.3 seconds. 

"You know what, forget it. Forget the sodding tea."

He stomped off to his room. 

 _Q.E. bloody D._ thought Sherlock, but for once being right made him feel anything but smug. 

\--

John's appearance at crime scenes had tailed off once the baby had arrived, and had remained sporadic once he moved back to Baker Street, thanks to his new job. The administrator at the clinic was far less accommodating than Sarah had been. Which meant that John turning up at the crime scene in Ealing (only a 7, but beggars can't be choosers) was, to say the least, disconcerting. Sherlock hadn't sent him the details. _Must have been Lestrade._  

Sherlock turned back to the body, hating the sharp pang of  _something_ that John's appearance brought. He wrote it off as indigestion. It would be interesting to see John's reaction when - 

"Sherlock!" 

Richard ducked under the crime scene tape, all his attention on Sherlock. He appeared not to have seen John, huddled in conversation with Lestrade. 

"Came as fast as I could," he said, smiling and resting his hand briefly on his boyfriend's shoulder. Sherlock didn't see John's reaction, though he could guess it well enough. By the time he looked around, the ex-army-doctor was gone. 

\--

It was another two days before he crossed paths with John in 221b again. In spite of a rather spectacular finish to the case, Sherlock was feeling  _flat._ Perhaps he was coming down with something. 

John looked up from his novel - some awful crime thriller - and smiled. 

"No Richard today?"

Sherlock glared. John seemed far too happy about Richard's absence. 

"Obviously," he snapped. 

John may not be the cleverest of detectives, but even he could tell when to beat a strategic retreat. He nodded, and went back to his book in silence.

Sherlock flounced off to his room, but it was a pathetic kind of flouncing. It lacked conviction. In its place was a strange kind of longing for simpler times, when he would rattle off the details to an admiring audience of one.  

\--


	12. Temper, temper

Immersed in soil samples from the crime scene, Sherlock vaguely registered the sound of the flat door opening.  _Richard!_ Of course it was Richard, it had been two days since he'd hared off to Ealing, with barely a backwards glance. _Oh brilliant_ _,_ thought Sherlock sarcastically. _As if the day wasn't going badly enough!_

Sherlock knew, deep down, that he was being unreasonable. One should not be annoyed on hearing one's boyfriend enter one's flat. But his experiment this morning had backfired and ruined one of his favourite shirts. Worse, the link between the last two murders eluded him, and he  _couldn't think._ It was too much. Too loud. Too -  _frustrating_ for words. 

Sherlock grunted in response to Richard's - _too loud and too damn cheery_ \- hello. Richard had not yet born the brunt of a really bad 'Sherlockian bad day' - not like John had. Sherlock had no idea how he'd react. And today, in the midst of this fury, he really couldn't care. At least John had had the good sense to make himself scarce. Sherlock scowled and hunched even further over his microscope, hoping Richard would get the message and leave well enough alone. 

Unfortunately, Richard made the capital mistake of offering Sherlock a cup of tea. 

"For God's sake, Richard, can you not see that I'm working! How am I expected to think with all this - tea making going on?"  

"It was a perfectly reasonable offer. And hello to you too,  _darling._  How nice that you're so happy to see me!"

"Don't be an idiot!"

"Then don't be such a dick!"

Sherlock made a face. It looked surprisingly like he'd sucked on half a lemon. 

"You can sulk over your - little piles of dirt? - all you like. But I'm here, I'm staying, and you can't chase me away by being rude to me. Now, I'm going to make some tea. Feel free to not have any, won't you?"

Sherlock glowered but held his tongue. He may be an angry, arrogant arsehole with sociopathic tendencies, but even he knew it would be a 'bit not good' to lash out at his boyfriend just because he felt like it. Restraining his temper did  _nothing_ to make him less angry, unfortunately.  _Everything_ was going wrong.  _Damn it all to hell! Why couldn't he think!"_

Sherlock groaned, put his head in his hands, grabbed two handfuls of hair - and  _pulled._

_\--_

Richard was getting more than a little impatient. His boyfriend been absent and moody for weeks now. Not to mention this little  _obsession_ with his flatmate's state of mind. Sometimes it felt like _he_ was the bit on the side, and John the long suffering partner. Being shouted at and then ignored were just not on. And as for the hair pulling...

"Sherlock?"

He was met with a disdainful sniff as Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the eyepiece of the microscope. 

"Sherlock!" The volume rose substantially. 

"What? What could you possibly want now?"

Volume rose even more. 

"Oh, I don't know, a little  _attention_ when I speak to you, maybe? Is that too much to ask?"

"Well I don't know. Is it?"

"Oh, don't get cute with me!"

"Then  _for the love of GOD_ please stop, halt, cease and desist this endless stream of inanity! I'm trying to _work._ If you don't like it, have the sense and good grace to take yourself elsewhere. I really don't care _where._ Just not here!"

"Oh, charming! Is this how you treat _John_? I bet he doesn't get shouted at for daring to  _breathe_ -"

Richard's voice was edging further towards shouting with each word that passed his lips. Sherlock shouldn't - he knew he really shouldn't - react. But John's name did something sharp and ugly to the fury already twisting in his belly. He stood up so sharply he knocked over the dining chair. 

"This has  _nothing_ to do with John - " 

The anger in Sherlock's voice had nothing on the ice cold fury shooting from his eyes. 

"So now you answer me. When I bring up your bloody flatmate. What, am I not good enough to bother being civil to? Conversation not _interesting_ enough for you unless _he's_ in it?"

Things only escalated from there. 

\--

In hindsight, it was probably high time for a bit of a domestic, considering how tense the atmosphere had been. Sherlock found himself beyond frustrated. _Why couldn't anything be simple any more._  But it had been a mistake to react so strongly when Richard brought up the painful subject of one Doctor John Watson. If Mrs Hudson hadn't woo-woo'd her way into the flat and shouted at the 'boys' to stop - well.. who knows where it might have ended. As it was, Richard and Mrs Hudson were left clearing away the shards of a broken teacup in the kitchen while Sherlock flounced off to chain-smoke furiously out the tiny window by the stairs. It wasn't helping. Nothing usually did, on a day like today.  _Intolerable!_

 

 


	13. Fire and Fury

Sherlock could hear Mrs Hudson yammering on in the kitchen. If only she'd  _stop talking!_  He couldn't make out the words, but the noise, the inflection, sawed badly on already inflamed nerves until he couldn't  _bear_  it any more. Just as he was considering the relative merits of banging his head on the window frame against making a call to one of his less illustrious contacts (anything to block out the awful droning), she moved towards the door. Words began to resolve themselves as he caught the end of the conversation. 

"Reminds me of my late husband, dearie," she was saying. "He was just like that with his strops! But oh- it was the making-up afterwards that made it all worthwhile, if you catch my drift!" 

Sherlock winced as his landlady tittered before finally - finally! - leaving. 

A pair of apologetic arms snaked around his midriff from behind, and Richard's chin settled on his shoulder. But honestly, all that did was irritate him. He wanted to rip something, throw something, anything to exorcise this blinding agitation. But he knew he couldn't. That did not fall into the category of 'acceptable boyfriend behaviour'. He thunked his head, once, against the window, instead. 

**

 _Mrs Hudson was right,_ thought Sherlock, later that night, _makeup sex was bloody brilliant._   _Not that it had resolved anything, really._  

He edged his way out from under Richard's sleep-heavy arm and slipped into his robe.

 _No point in wasting a perfectly good night sleeping. Back to the mud samples._  

With thoughts turning back to the case, a spark of irritation reignited deep in his abdomen.

_Sex! Brilliant (and energetic) it may have been, but ultimately it was just a distraction. So much time wasted servicing his transport, servicing his 'relationship'._

Even in his thoughts, the word made him want to spit. Worse, the killer was that much closer to his next victim, and Sherlock no closer to figuring it out. He stalked into the living room, pulling up short when he saw John Watson sitting in his chair, headphones on, oblivious to Sherlock's entrance. A book lay open on his knees, but he had obviously given up any attempt at reading it. He seemed to be staring at his hands. 

"Oh," he said, though John couldn't hear him. 

Sherlock looked at the clock, it was coming up to 2am.

_Bit late for John to be up. For that matter I didn't hear him come in - what with all the noise Richard was making - oh! The noise! The headphones.._

The little spark of irritation in his gut flared up a the thought. It caught on the driftwood of agitation that was still snarling through his blood and was fanned to life by the months of hurt at John's reaction to Sherlock's relationship. The resulting conflagration roared into incandescence. Three steps and he was at John's side, startling the smaller man. He snatched the headphones, flinging them aside, a worm of tinny music wriggling free. 

"What? What was that for -"

"Oh, don't play innocent, John it doesn't suit you!"

"Look if this is about the nightmares, I told Richard I'd sort it, I'm doing my best here -"

"What? What have your  _nightmares_ got to do with anything. Don't talk rubbish!"

"They're NOT rubbish," John's voice was raised. 

They were going to wake Richard if he didn't lower his voice. _T_ _oo bad_ , thought Sherlock. He'd just about had enough! He pitched his own voice a notch past a snarl, looming over John in his eagerness to be heard.  

"No John, what's  _rubbish_ is that you just can't stick it can you? Can't stick that I have Richard now. That for once I'm bloody happy."

"How can you say that, Sherlock, of course I'm glad for you! But what's that got to do with -"

"You forget who you're talking to, John. I can see through your lies! Glad? Oh yes. So glad that you can't bear to look me in the eye any more!"

"Now wait a minute -"

"And now headphones! What, does the  _noise_ bother you THAT much? Poor little John, can't stand the sound of two men fucking? So much for 'it's all fine', you hypocrite!" Sherlock seethed. 

"What? Wait! I -"

"Oh don't deny it - it's obvious!" Sherlock roared, eyes full of fire. "You think I don't notice, John? The grimaces, the frankly insulting disapproval, the leaving the flat every time Richard and I so much as look like we're going to get intimate. We can't even hold bloody hands without you getting all _twitchy._ "

Sherlock's voice took on the dangerous tone that made innocent men scramble for the door and had criminals searching for the nearest police officer to give themselves up. John tried to speak but Sherlock talked over him, arms flailing as he gesticulated, words flying faster than ever, no gap to respond. 

"Are you that jealous of my happiness, since you have none? What, did you just wake up that morning and think, 'oh, my lying, cheating assassin of a wife has left me, I'll just go stay with Sherlock, we can be miserably single together, he won't mind. Not like he's got any chance of a relationship himself!' Misery just loves company, doesn't it?"

John blanched. Sherlock could see that particular arrow had landed squarely. John's fists clenched at his side.  _Good. Let him feel it!_

"Stop it!" John snapped. "You can't just go about making accusations like th-"

 Sherlock cut him off, pouring all his contempt, months of hurt and disappointment, into his words. 

"I never took you for a dog in the manger. You're supposed to be my _friend."_

"I  _am_ your friend!"

"Tell me, is it because it's _gay_ sex that you can't bear to listen? Or would any sex do it? Do you think I didn't hear _you_  every time you had someone back? You're not exactly quiet! Do you think that was easy? No! But at least I didn't do my damndest to make you feel  _bad_ about it!"

"I didn't, I don't -"

"You've done every single thing you could to make both me and my boyfriend feel bad about this, Doctor 'I'm not gay' Watson! Yes, he's my _boyfriend_ \- and I'm sorry if the thought of me having intimate relations with another man makes you uncomfortable but it's my home too! If you hate it so much that you have to wear  _headphones_ to block out the noise, if it disgusts you so much, then maybe you should just MOVE OUT ALREADY!"

Sherlock paused for breath. He could see John's mouth moving, but no words were coming out. His face had gone horribly white. _H_ _ad he gone too far? He'd gone too far hadn't he?_

John bowed his head, a strange look of defeat about him. Sherlock's heart sank like a stone, anger wiped out as if it had never existed, leaving a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He felt physically sick, words stuck in his throat. Without another word, John stood and walked towards the landing, headphones dangling. His book lay forgotten on the floor. It must have fallen. When did it fall? Sherlock couldn't remember. All he could think was that John's shoulders had the same stiff slant as they'd held the day he'd marched away from Sherlock's grave. Ever the soldier, soldiering on. 

"John," he tried, but it came out more like a whisper, as Sherlock registered Richard standing in the doorway, watching. There was a strangely pleased gleam in his eye, not quite gloating but definitely a little smug. John had to walk around him to get to the stairs. 

Sherlock swallowed.  _Oh God, what had he done?_

 

 


	14. Not Observing

Sherlock set out to discuss things calmly and reasonably the next morning, as soon as John came downstairs.

"Ah, John, there you are - "

The slam of a bathroom door echoing on tiles reverberated through the flat. It was a terribly lonely sound.

Perhaps he was just in a hurry for the loo. Sherlock prided himself on being a rational man. He waited patiently in the hall, outside the bathroom door until John emerged.   

"John, it occurs to me that -"

But John didn't stop - not to argue, not to make breakfast. He kept on walking, right out the door. Not a slam, merely a click. But just as final. 

\--

Of course, Sherlock knew he'd overstepped.

_I should have known better than to lose control like that. Disgusting display of sentiment. Is he going to leave? I hope he doesn't leave. But really, why would he stay?_

"Sherlock, stop moping about and give me a hand with this, will you?" Richard's voice interrupted his thoughts. 

Sherlock gave an angry sounding grunt. 

"Oh come on, Sherlock. It's not like you're doing anything. Apart from obsessing about your flatmate, obviously."

"You mean probable ex-flatmate, surely? And don't try to pretend you're not pleased about it."

"Ex? So when is he moving out?"

"How should I know? He hasn't said. Hasn't said anything. Not like he speaks to me these days, is it? Stubborn, aggravating, idiotic man!"

Richard sighed. And wasn't that irritating too. It sounded just like John when he was exasperated. Nobody should sigh John's sigh at him - not even his boyfriend.  

"I know you regret yelling at him and all, but it's not like you didn't have a point. You were right to speak your mind. He's been making those 'I'm so offended' faces for far too long. If nothing else, it's insulting!"

Sherlock grit his teeth. He would never admit it to Richard, but John's reaction to him going out with a man had been off from the start. That had  _hurt._ It still hurt. It made him furious

_So much for having a lesbian sister. Oh yes, all fine - until he had to face the fact of me getting off with another bloke._

It hurt to think that their friendship been dependent on Sherlock's supposed lack of interest in sex. And Sherlock was heartily sick of this silent treatment - it was just so juvenile! Not to mention, Richard's gloating was grating on Sherlock's already frayed nerves. Even if he did have a point. Sherlock huffed in annoyance, wishing his boyfriend would go and be obscenely pleased somewhere else. Somewhere Sherlock didn't have to look at him. The whole situation was  _wrong._

\--

"Sherlock!" Richard's voice interrupted a perfectly good train of thought. 

Oh. Based on the level of irritation in the tone, he had presumably been caught not-listening. Again. Richard looked unreasonably angry. Really, what more could he want? Sherlock had already gone to bat with John about him. Wasn't that enough? Sherlock took a deep breath as he had read somewhere that it was supposed to be calming. 

"Pardon?", he managed - fairly politely for a Sherlock. 

"I said, can you finish that bloody experiment, please? It stinks. It's stinking up the kitchen."

"It's a perfectly safe experiment on the reaction between -"

"I don't care. It's making me  _gag_. Bin it. Now," he growled. 

Oh, and if that wasn't a red rag to flaunt at an already angry detective!

"You may be my boyfriend, but make no mistake, you do NOT get to order me around!" 

Sherlock turned and glared. The simmering anger that had been bubbling beneath the surface all week was starting to coil and heave. It washed his face in cold fury.  _Why couldn't they all just leave him alone?_

The glaring did the trick, Richard slammed off to the bedroom. Leaving Sherlock - well, very much alone. 

\--

Alone was no good. Alone was terrible. Alone left a horrible sucking space for all the thoughts that were whirling on his internal treadmill. Sherlock felt he was going mad with it. He couldn't concentrate. He couldn't  _think_. What good was a detective who couldn't think, damn it?

\--

Not-alone was terrible too. Not-alone was even more distracting than alone. The work was suffering. And so was he. For the first time in a long time, Sherlock's great mind longed for the sweet, blissful kiss of cocaine. 

\--

Everything was irritating. Everything was wrong. Mrs Hudson was intolerable. Richard was unbearable. Mycroft - he would happily throttle the man if he only put his fat head through the door long enough for Sherlock's twitching fingers to find purchase on his neck. Although Sherlock thought he remembered something about a conference in Brussels this week. And if John would only bother to turn up at 221b, it was highly likely he would do so only to inform Sherlock he was planning on moving out at the end of the month. He hadn't been back to 221b in two days. 

Sherlock was, to use a colloquial phrase, crawling out of his skin. He hadn't slept, the murder case was not co-operating. Donovan was being her usual scathing, blocking, little busybody-self. The bloody experiment had failed - again. Such a waste of time, he raged, prompting him to throw a very expensive vial of chemicals at the wall. It was alright though, it wasn't corrosive. Much. 

"If people would just STOP interrupting me, I might actually make some  _progress_ here!" he yelled at Richard's retreating back. That made three strategic retreats already today. Why couldn't the man stand and fight, it was bloody infuriating!

He almost chucked a glass beaker at the wall in his frustration - had already gripped it in his large hand, weighing up the cost-versus-benefit of hearing it shatter and explode. Lucky he didn't though, as John chose that precise moment to enter the flat, and would undoubtedly have had something disapproving to say about being assaulted with a piece of equipment. Sherlock grabbed his microscope and twiddled the knobs aggressively instead, determined  _not_ to make this easy on John. If the bastard was going to leave, let him be the one to initiate the 'talk'.

"Sherlock," John's voice sounded - rusty. He cleared his throat. 

Sherlock remained stoically silent, an involuntary twitch of his fingers the only indication he had heard. 

"It's - it's. Well. There's -"

"Oh, spit it  _out_ for God's sake, John!" he snapped impatiently, eyes still glued to the eyepiece of his expensive microscope. 

"It's about - it's about Harry," he said, and his voice definitely sounded odd. Perhaps he was coming down with something, caught at that boring clinic he insisted on working at. Serve him right. 

Richard chose that moment to poke his head back out of the bedroom door. 

"What?" he called out, voice rough with annoyance. "Did you say something, Sherlock?"

"Oh for crying out  _loud,_ am I never to get any  _peace_ in this place!" Sherlock roared, arms flailing. 

"What is it?" Richard shouted back, "I can't bloody-well hear you!"

"Nothing. NOTHING. Go back to bed. It's just John's alcoholic sister. Probably went off on a bender. Or got herself arrested again. Honestly, John, your caretaker complex is nauseating! You're not here just to talk to _me_ , obviously. What is it, do you need to borrow some bail money, hmm? My card's just over there!" he said dismissively, waving his arm vaguely in the direction of the coffee table. 

Sherlock lifted his eyes from the microscope in time to see a flash of anger in John's face that quickly ceded to pain. The man looked - bereft. 

"Never mind," John ground out from between clenched teeth, before executing a military turn and marching back from whence he came.

And then he was gone. And Sherlock was left to feel that he had - somehow - missed something. And that he had just managed to mis-step one more time with John.  More than a bit-not-good. He groaned and re-considered the beaker, but his heart wasn't in it any more. 

\--

Sixteen hours later Sherlock had finally succeeded in driving Richard out of Baker Street, loudly announcing that Sherlock could 'call him when this madness was over'. Much as he knew this probably wasn't considered a nice thing to do to one's boyfriend, his absence was something of a relief. God, when had this all become so complicated? But even in the silence of 221b he couldn't concentrate. The lack of noise reminded him too forcibly of the time after John's wedding, when the flat had been one great, big, achingly empty space to float in. To drown in, truth be told. No - out. He would go out. Lestrade must have something for him, the current case was nothing but a big dead end, for now. 

He and his coat strode haughtily into the precinct, up to Lestrade's office, and straight in, as usual, to perch on the edge of the Detective Inspector's desk. Lestrade was noticeably absent. He'd wait. 

_Please God let him have something decent_ , he thought, flipping the cover of the topmost file in the rather large pile on the desk. 

Exactly 3 minutes later - long enough to have determined no fewer than three suspects in the case he'd pilfered - Lestrade walked in. His nose was buried in yet another file and the rapidly-cooling coffee was slopping out of a dirty looking mug he was sipping from as he walked. Sally was, as ever, hot on his heels, notebook in hand. Lestrade glanced up and did a conspicuous double-take on seeing the consulting detective on his desk. 

"Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you doing here?" he said, anger evident in his voice. 

"Looking for another case, why am I ever here?"

"No - I mean why aren't you with Joh- Oh," he said, as he dropped heavily into the chair, for all the world looking like a man distraught. "Oh no."

"Lestrade, do please put me out of my misery and tell me to what you are referring."

"John."

"What about John?" The words came out haughty, indifferent. 

"He said - I offered to go with him, but he said  _you_ were the only one he'd want with him for this. Oh I'm a bloody  _idiot._  The only one he'd want, but that didn't mean the stubborn bugger actually asked you."

Lestrade buried his head in his hands and groaned. "Poor John!"

"Go to him, gov," Sally piped up. "He shouldn't be alone."

"What do you mean, not alone? What is wrong with John?" Sherlock said petulantly - rather annoyed at not already having deduced it. Too little data. 

Lestrade jumped to his feet, grabbing his keys from the desk and ignoring Sherlock's question entirely. 

"Take a car," Sally said. "Get one of the boys to drive you - won't have to find parking and you can use the sirens," she continued, speaking fast. "I'll cover for you here."

"Thanks Sally. I'll text you," said Lestrade, worry written in his face, as he bolted for the stairs.

"What's going on?" Sherlock tried to modulate his voice - shouting rarely worked on police officers - but was for once, thoroughly confused. It wasn't a state he relished. Or indulged in often. 

Sally looked at him, assessingly. It was clear how little she thought of him from that look. 

"You really don't know, do you?"

Her face softened, something like pity creeping in about the eyes.

"It's John. His sister was involved in a head-on collision two days ago. DUI. She's in Bart's. Pronounced brain dead. They're turning off life support today. John's at the hospital now."

Sherlock's heart lurched sickeningly, then dropped right to the tips of his leather shoes. For once he had no words, his mouth worked convulsively as his brain replayed that last, awful, conversation with John. 

"Don't just stand there, you bastard. John needs you, God knows why, but he does. If you hurry you'll catch Lestrade outside!"

Sally paused, and when Sherlock didn't seem to be likely to move any time soon, shouted: "RUN!"

He did. 

 


	15. Reaching, not touching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse at all for taking such a horribly long time to update nor for the very short chapters!! I will try to do better and promise this fic WILL be finishing soon.. I have determined never to post a WIP again, completed works only!! My writing schedule is erratic at the best of times. I'm so happy people are sticking with this nonetheless and thanks to all the commenters - you've no idea how much seeing the words you write help to spur me on!

Sherlock caught up with Lestrade as the DI was climbing into the passenger seat of a police car, engine already running. Sherlock normally refused point blank to sit in the back of a police car. But Lestrade didn't look at all like he'd stop for discussions on seating arrangements, and by now Sherlock was frantic to just get-to-John, so he wrenched opened the back door and piled in before Lestrade could finish putting on his belt. If the DI was surprised to see Sherlock in the back, he didn't say. He nodded briskly at the fresh-faced, uniformed driver. 

"Foot to the floor, lad. St Bart's. Lights _and_ sirens."

"Yes sir," the Constable answered, taking off as if the hounds of hell were after him.

Sherlock gripped at the steel grid separating him from the front cabin as the car jerked into the stream of traffic. This time of day, given normal patterns of road use and likely route, as well as the Constable's evident death wish - 10 minutes tops to St Bart's. Too long. 

"Ring Molly," Sherlock shot out through gritted teeth. "She's closer. She'll get to him faster."

Greg nodded, once, and reached for his phone. 

"Voicemail," he said, clicking the button to end call. He sent a text instead, fingers flying over the keyboard. 

Silence pervaded the car, each man lost in his own thoughts. Sherlock's knee bounced on repeat. As fast as the car was moving, it still felt  _too damned slow!_  

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, voice more shaky than he'd like. "Sally said - she said Harry won't survive." 

"No, Sherlock, she won't."

"But John will be - he'll be alright," he said.

He had intended to sound confident about John's prognosis - whether for Lestrade's comfort, or for his own, he couldn't be sure. But the words came out sounding hesitant and unsure. Lestrade swiveled abruptly in his seat, neck straining to allow him to glare balefully at the consulting detective. 

"In what universe could he possibly be _alright_?  God, I know you're clueless sometimes - but even you should be able to work that one out!"

"But -"

"Just - shut up, will you? This isn't some crime scene where you get to swan in and deduce everyone, understand? This is John! He's all alone and you - his best bloody friend - didn't know. What does that say about the state of things, eh? Worst day of his life and he's got nobody at his side. Man like that, always there for everyone else, and nobody there for him. It's not right. You know it's not right."

Sherlock couldn't find anything to say to this. Gregory was right. He should have known. Would have known if he hadn't been such a capital arse yesterday to John. No wonder John decided not to tell him. 

 "She's the only family he had left," he muttered to himself.  _Of course he's not alright. Oh God. How will I make this up to him?_

_\--_

Finally, the facade of St Bart's came into view. Lestrade all-but threw himself from the car before it had even come to a halt. Sherlock started banging frantically at the door, since the rear locks hadn't been disengaged. God, he _hated_ the back of police cars! The DI jerked back and wrenched open the door. He turned abruptly and strode towards reception, fishing for his badge, Sherlock a black wraith on his heels. 

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, New Scotland Yard," he rattled off at the front desk. "Harriet Watson. Room number. Quickly, please."

The receptionist clattered at the keyboard and hastily read out a room number on the third floor. Already familiar with the hospital layout, neither man waited to be pointed to the lifts.  

\--

The lifts in St Bart's were not known for speed.

"Too slow!" Sherlock growled, hands tugging mercilessly at his hair to stop himself from repeatedly (and illogically) pushing at the call button. 

Just as Sherlock had begun eyeing the doors to the stairwell, the lift arrived. They piled in, Sherlock jabbing viciously at the close-door button. Lestrade spared a moment to be glad nobody else had been waiting, as there was no way Sherlock would have taken well to the likely delay involved in anyone else clearing the doors. 

As soon as the lift pinged its arrival on the third floor, Sherlock was off, full tilt, down the corridor. Lestrade huffed a curse and took off in his wake, only to run straight into the back of the silly git with an 'umph' when he pulled up short and froze. Lestrade shoved him aside, none-too-gently and then likewise, stopped in his tracks, suddenly unsure.

At the end of the otherwise empty corridor, not yet aware of their presence, stood John. One fist was clenched at his side, the other arm folded to support his head as he leaned into the wall outside the door to his sister's room. He seemed to be barely moving, hardly even breathing, definitely not crying. But one glance at his rigid posture and Sherlock's heart sank all over again.  _Too late, we're too late,_ he thought. He could read it in every line of John's body. Harriet Watson was no more.

 --

"Come on," urged Lestrade, but Sherlock couldn't force his locked knees to move. 

"I -

Sherlock closed his eyes against the image of John's stoic misery. The man looked  _so alone_ , taking comfort in a _bloody wall._ And Sherlock - he couldn't. He just couldn't. Couldn't move - couldn't breathe!

"Oh for God's sake-", huffed Greg, as he manhandled the suddenly clumsy detective out of the way, intent on reaching his friend. 

As the DI moved towards John, Molly Hooper rounded the corner from the other end of the corridor. It was obvious she had run all the way, lab coat streaming behind her. She must have just read the message they'd sent from the car. 

"Oh John," she was saying. Sherlock may not be able to move, but he still had excellent lip reading skills. "John, I am so sorry." 

Lestrade moved to join them, and suddenly John was being engulfed in Molly's arms. He stiffened and Sherlock could tell he was simply allowing the gesture, retreating into himself. He took no comfort from the contact.  _Stupid woman,_ Sherlock thought, annoyed in spite of himself,  _you were never close before, what makes you think he wants a 'hug' from you now?_   After a few seconds, John patted Molly's back, awkwardly, then moved his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as he disengaged. He was saying something. Sherlock couldn't see his mouth properly to decipher the words - his hand was in the way - but it was obvious that speaking cost him greatly. Greg was also saying something, but his back was to Sherlock. _Useless!_

John said some more words and turned, as if to go back into the hospital room. Lestrade and Molly hung back, presumably at John's request. They were going to wait outside, that much was clear. John's eyes were on the ground as he moved and for a minute Sherlock was glad John hadn't seen him, standing uselessly in the corridor as other people offered their presence and comfort instead. And then John lifted his gaze and it was all Sherlock could do not to fall to his knees at the depth of despair in John's eyes.  

John lowered his head and Sherlock was left to wonder if it was better or worse that John had seen him there. He felt his blood squirm in his veins like a thousand ants. He couldn't bear this. He had to  _move._  Turning with a squeak of shoe on hospital linoleum floor, he fled. 

 


	16. Shaking Hands, Heavy Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this is such a short chapter.. my word count is crawling these days. I have not abandoned this.. just going very very slowly....

_Jittery. Hands are shaking, why won't they stop shaking?_

Sherlock fled towards Baker Street, swooping past pedestrians, who took one look at him and swiftly got out of the way. His distress was palpable. He ranted to himself, feeling the siren call of 7 per cent solution in the back of his brain. 

_I could visit Wiggins, he'd know someone. It'd be so easy. I_ need _it._

He did an about turn, shaking his head.

_No, no. That won't do John any good. Got to pull it together. Got to.._

His hands rose to his hair again, tugging. 

_Richard. Call Richard. No. No, don't call Richard. He won't care about John. Not even now. Mycroft. Call Mycroft -_

Sherlock pulled up short, forcing the shoals of commuters to part and re-join around him. The entire workings of his genius brain devolved to one heart-stoppingly simple fact: _Mycroft should have known about the accident. The man made it his business to know literally everything._

Sherlock drew a shuddering breath.

Why _didn't he know about Harry? Did he know? How could he not know? But if he knew, surely he'd have warned me. Why didn't he warn me? It doesn't make any sense. Why did I not see this?  There's always, always something._

His fingers were dialing before he even knew they had moved. The ring tone told him immediately that his brother was not in London. Mycroft answered on the second ring. 

"Sherlock - is everything alright?"

Were things not so serious, Sherlock would have enjoyed the discomposure evident in the politician's tone. Mycroft knew as well as anyone that his brother never called, always texted. This call was such a departure from the norm that it really did not bode well, he was sure. 

 "My?"

Now this, this was genuinely alarming. Sherlock hadn't called him that in years!

"Sherlock, what is it? Answer me. Are you alright?"

"Harry Watson. Did you know?"

"What about Ms Watson?"

"I said: Did. You. Know?"

The sound of distant tapping came down the line, followed by a sharp intake of breath. 

"Oh, Sherlock. No. No I didn't know."

"Why weren't you monitoring? You monitor everyone within a ten mile radius. How did you miss _this_?"

"Because.. I promised Doctor Watson that I would leave him be. I gave him my word."

"No. No that can't be true. You'd - why would you _do_ that?"

"Because he asked me to. And I rather felt I owed him one, after all our family put him through."

"Mycroft Holmes doesn't  _back off_ just because somebody asks him to. Mister British Government doesn't choose not to surveil someone just because they  _ask nicely!_ "

"I rather think we should discuss this in person, don't you? I will make arrangements. I can be in Baker Street by nightfall."

Sherlock grunted his assent. 

"And - how is John, then? Is he - alright?" 

The word sounded alien in Mycroft's mouth. 

"How would I know," spat Sherlock. 

"Oh, Sherlock!" 

"I think - I think I may have truly messed up. I - I didn't know, Mycroft, I didn't know and I said something unforgivable as he was trying to tell me."

In a secret meeting room in a nondescript building in the heart of Brussels, Mycroft Holmes sighed. 

"Oh Sherlock. I am sorry."

"I need to fix this. I need to make it right."

"Are you alone? Is Richard at Baker Street?"

"No. We're.. having a difference of opinion."

"I will call him, ask him to drop round -"

"No! Don't. It's not - please don't do that. I don't want him here. Not now."

"Alright. Please - just wait until I arrive. Do nothing until I get there. I will be with you shortly."

Sherlock cut the call and renewed his march towards Baker Street, coat flapping in the wind. 

\--

 


	17. Sometimes the biggest blind spot is right before your eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic warnings have been updated, please do not read if likely to be triggering..

The street lights on Baker Street were slowly coming to life by the time Mycroft slipped into 221b. Sherlock had all but worn a groove into the rug from pacing and the ashtray was full to overflowing. In truth he did not look well.

He wasted no time in getting to the point. 

"What's going on Mycroft? What did I miss?"

"If I tell you, do you promise to listen - really listen?" Mycroft asked, tone heavy with the weight of Really Bad News.

Sherlock's head jerked up. This was worse than he had expected. His eyes found his brother's and he gave one curt nod, indicating his acquiescence. 

"Proceed."

 "I was genuinely unaware of the fate of Harriet Watson until you alerted me today. All surveillance on John Watson and any of his family had already ceased prior to John resuming his tenancy at 221b. I simply did not know. And for that I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Why had we ceased to monitor him?"

"Yes."

"Because he asked, Sherlock. A request I could not refuse."

"Why?"

"Sherlock - do you remember what I said about John's reasons for returning to Baker Street? The night he barged in on you and Richard?"

"You said Mary had left with the baby, it wasn't his."

"That is decidedly  _not_ what I said. Think, Sherlock, what were my words, my  _exact_ words? '"

Sherlock pulled the memory of that conversation out of its folder in his mind palace.

"You said: 'John has asked me to inform you that the baby is not his, that' -" horror dawned on Sherlock's face as he broke off, abruptly.

"Oh," he whispered, "you said that _he_ asked you to inform me.. "

"Precisely brother mine, he asked me to inform you of something that was, unfortunately, untrue. Granted, I did not lie to you directly. I merely told you what John asked me to say. But - I admit, it was a lie of omission. For that I am heartily sorry."

"Then - what really happened?" Sherlock interrupted, voice strained in anticipation. 

"The woman known as Mary Morstan was, as you know, an assassin by trade. Until recently, we believed her to be retired, and as a result, no longer a threat to national security. Unfortunately, we were wrong. Upon realising our mistake, we increased surveillance and started to plan for every eventuality. That morning, we had intercepted a series of coded messages. The contents, once decoded, gave rise to an immediate need to.. neutralise the threat."

Sherlock made a strangled sound. 

"But the baby," he protested.

"Our plan was to have John enter the house, extract the child, allowing our teams to close in on the target. We had intercepted John at the clinic, briefed him on the situation. He was furious, but of course his primary concern was to get his child to safety. "

He paused.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock, the plan back fired, spectacularly. She took one look at John and somehow knew the game was up. She drew a gun, held it on the child, threatened to shoot. He tried to talk her down, but she wouldn't listen, said if she died, the child would too. The order went out to hold fire, but one of the agents saw an opening, he took the shot. So did she." Mycroft sighed. "Neither Mary nor the child survived," he said, bleakly.

"Oh, God, no," gasped Sherlock, imagining the chaos, the sound of gunfire, glass shattering, blood splattering.

"He was unimaginably distraught, I don't think I have ever seen such despair. He attempted CPR of course, but it was too late. It took four of my agents to remove him, force him to shower, change his clothes. We took him to a safe house, under sedation. He didn't say a word for hours, just sat staring blankly. When he finally spoke, he requested me to tell you that his wife had left him. I believe it was so that he would not have to face any questions, he wasn't yet ready to field the 'sympathy' that was sure to follow. He asked to be deposited at Baker Street. Said he needed to 'go home'. Unwisely, I allowed the car to take him without me. I was still occupied with the cleanup. In retrospect that was yet another mistake."

If ever Sherlock had felt regret for anything, it was for his unintentional rejection of John Watson that night. A cold sweat washed over him. Shock, sorrow, and such deep regret. He feared he might vomit from it. He fought to steady his breathing. 

"I am so very sorry for keeping this from you, Sherlock, but you will understand why I felt obliged to keep his secret, and to remove him from surveillance when he asked. It was our fault, our bungling of the operation, our shot that triggered Mary's. We - I - owed him."

"You. Should. Have. Told. Me."

"How could I, Sherlock, when he so blatantly didn't want you to know?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry.. the muse made me do it!


	18. Nighttime Conversations

Mycroft was already on his mobile as he left, having promised to spare no manpower on the search - no matter what he'd promised John previously. 

Sherlock grabbed his own mobile, wondering who could he contact to assist the search. Who might have some news of John? He listed the options. Harry was dead. Mary was dead. Not in touch with any of his old army mates. Lestrade was a possibility. But John had seemed to withdraw from both him and Molly in the hospital today. It was unlikely he'd stay with either of them in an hour of need - not that type of friendship. 

That just left one option he could think of - Sarah. His lip curled as he dialed her number from memory. She took a while to answer and he vaguely registered the lateness of the hour. 

"Hello?" She sounded sleepy. 

"Hi, Sarah - it' Sherlock. Holmes. I, ahh, I'm actually looking for John. I thought maybe he might have gone to yours after what happened today. You know, friendly face and all that..."

He was rambling. Why was he rambling?

"No, Sherlock, he's not here. Something happened?" she yawned. 

"Right. Well, did he - maybe he told you when he thought he'd be returning to work?"

"Returning? You're joking, right? Did he put you up to this?"

"No! No, Sarah - he's, well I don't know where he is and I need to find him."

"Well I haven't the foggiest. Who knows what the hell is going on with him these days? What's happened anyway? A little  _domestic_?"

Her voice was bitter. Not a trace of pity. 

"Oh. You haven't heard."

"Heard what?"

"It's Harry, John's sister. She - well she passed away. John is - not here. I don't know where he went. I'm trying to find him. I thought you might know his plans."

He was unable to keep the worry out of his voice. A worry that grew exponentially with Sarah's next words. 

"Sherlock - God I'm sorry to hear that. I really am. But I don't know why you'd think I of all people would know where he's gone. We didn't exactly part on best of terms. As for his work schedule - look, I really can't tell why he would hide this, but it's clear you don't know what happened."

" _What_ happened?" 

"John Watson hasn't worked at the clinic for months now. He was - not himself. He'd been missing shifts, even worse than before, worse than when he was on the cases with you. And acting strangely - irrational, surly, shorter fuse than normal, even for him. At first we thought he might be drinking.. turned out he was just plain exhausted. He wasn't in any state to treat anyone. We had to let him go. Too big a risk for the patients. I could - and did - put up with a lot of things, but him turning up half starved and chronically sleep deprived, well, I couldn't overlook it. Not when he started to prescribe the wrong meds to patients. It was a disaster, not to mention an insurance claim waiting to happen."

 _Half Starved?_ he mouthed to himself. 

"So what - he gets a bit  _shirty_ and you just cut him loose?" Sherlock's tone was grim. 

"No, Sherlock. I tried. I really did. I tried to persuade him to eat something, to rest. He just got angry. Well, angrier than usual. He flew off the handle, threw a mug at the practice nurse. I was more than a little scared. Nobody wants a volatile, shaking, wreck to be sitting on the other side of the examination table. I didn't _want_ to fire him. God knows I wanted to help him. But - he wouldn't talk to me. And the second time he fainted in front of a client, well, there wasn't much else I  _could_ do, was there? It was for his own good as much as ours. He needed a break. Told him not to come back until he had a hold of himself. He never did come back."

"So you have no idea at all where he might have gone?"

"No, I don't. Haven't heard from him since. And frankly, given that he didn't tell you he was unemployed again, I am not surprised that you don't know either. I - hope he turns up though. I may not have ended  on the best of terms with him, exactly, but - I would hate to see anything  _happen_ to him."

"Happen?" Sherlock spat. "What do you think will happen when you cut someone loose exactly at the point they most need an anchor?"

"Sherlock - the clinic is a business, not a charity. We couldn't - we have a responsibility to the patients. And the stubborn bastard wouldn't  _let_ anybody help.  _Alone protects me_ , he said. And that's all he'd say. Short of getting him sectioned, there wasn't much I could do."

"Ring me if he gets in touch," Sherlock snapped, hating that he knew the origin of that phrase, and aware he would get no more useful information from this call. 

"I promise I will. And let me know when you find him, ok?"

Sherlock hummed faintly and hung up, dismayed. He knew it had been bad, he knew John hadn't been taking care of himself all that well. But starved? Exhausted? Fired? How on  _earth_ had he missed all that? There hadn't even been any nightmares in ages, had there?

_Oh._

His mind flickered back to a pale and trembling John, sitting in the living room, headphones on. Not sleeping.  He remembered John's voice, defensive, ashamed.

"Look if this is about the nightmares, I told Richard I'd sort it", he had said. 

_Sort it. What did that mean? How would one sort one's nightmares._

He drew in a shaky breath. Perhaps - by not sleeping at all. This was worse than he'd feared. 

\---

His hand hovered over the speed dial for Richard's number. He hadn't spoken to him in days, weeks maybe. Not since their last row. But - Sherlock did so hate not knowing. And - this was  _John._ He pressed the dial button. 

"Sherlock. Nice of you to finally ring me, I suppose."

"Richard, I - sorry, I know I should have rung," he said.  _People liked when you said sorry for perceived slights, didn't they?_

"Damn right, you should have."

"Look - can we maybe discuss that in person? Next time I see you? It's just - I had a question. It's important."

Richard sighed. 

"What is it, then?"

"Did you - was there ever - did John ever discuss his nightmares with you?"

"John? Did - are you  _seriously_ giving me a call after over a week of radio silence, Sherlock, only to ask about  _John's nightmares?_ "

"I  _said_ it's important." There was steel in Sherlock's tone. 

"Fine. If you must know, yeah. We've mentioned them in passing. Once or twice."

"And what exactly was said, that once or twice?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because. It's.  _Important._ "

"Well, mainly just the one time. After that case with the putrid cow, a couple of months back. You came home in a right state, hadn't slept in four days. We had a rather.. interesting time with the -"

"Alright! I remember. Get to the point, please."

"I rather thought the sex _was_ the point, you didn't seem to mind at the time."

"Alright," he sighed. 

"Anyway, you crashed out right after, and then Watson, John, started shouting upstairs, then came down and clattered about in the kitchen. I went out to ask him to keep it down, you know, since you hadn't slept in ages. He agreed to see what he could do. That's it."

"Nothing else?"

"No. What else do you expect me to have said? He's hardly a brilliant conversationalist at the best of times." 

"Fine. Look - something's come up. I'll ring you."

"Sherlock - what's this about? I just -"

"Later. I'll ring you later, ok? Bye."

\---

Of course, even though Sherlock was a certified genius, and even though he knew there was more to it than Richard had let on, he had been fast asleep at the time. So he had not heard when John jerked awake that night, with a half-strangled shout, gunfire echoing in his ear, the tang of blood on his tongue. Or witnessed his attempt at tea-making, only to bear the brunt of an unpleasant conversation. 

 

It didn't stop him speculating though. Based on the defensiveness in Richard's voice. 

It didn't stop him worrying about John. 

\--

 


	19. Rewind. Review.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very short chapter.. next section will be longer!

Sherlock resisted the urge to throw his phone against the wall - it wasn't inconceivable that Mycroft might ring with news, he might need his phone intact. 

Instead, he entered his Mind Palace and quickly found his way into the right room. He scanned back through the past months of stored memories of John. Rewind. Rewind. Pause. 

_John's face when he burst into Baker Street that first night._ _Emotion difficult to parse. Upset. Of course he was upset, his assassin wife just killed their baby in front of him. Distraught even - would have been distraught even had he not interrupted an intimate moment. Horrified to the edge of panic. Betrayed?_

Everything looked different in the light of the new information.

_All the times John was non-responsive around the flat, withdrawn. Lestrade was right. He was depressed. Horrifyingly so. How did I not see that it was more than just Mary leaving him?_

His thoughts flew to Richard, his lover's words a low level hum in the back of Sherlock's mind:John was being a killjoy. John was moping about. John was always in the way. John was surely exaggerating, his sorrow a touch excessive, don't you think? Laying it on a bit thick.  

_Could Richard's comments have thrown me that much off track when it came to John? How could I not see this was serious._

He paused, rewound again. Reviewed.

_No, I did see it was serious, I worried about him. Enough to talk to friends about him. Enough to bring it up more times than Richard liked. But I didn't understand just how much he had lost. Although - perhaps I did allow myself to be swayed by what I was hearing. It coloured every interaction. Deep down, a part of me believed the insinuation. And was hurt._

Sherlock had never felt so appalled at his own shortcomings, not even on his return from being 'dead'. He was honest enough with himself to admit that he had allowed resentment to take root - subtle as it was, it was there. In the cold light of Mycroft's revelation, old deductions had to be re-evaluated. Undeniably, John had seemed to dislike Richard's presence in Sherlock's life, and yes, he had reacted badly to walking in on the physical manifestations of their affection. However, taking his grieving state into account, there was no longer enough evidence to prove that his reactions had been rooted in the prejudice that had been assumed. How much of it was hurt, loneliness, jealousy in the face of his own deep loss, instead?

Richard's bias against John had done so much damage. What was worse, he couldn't outright blame Richard, either. John was Sherlock's friend. He should have known that John did not use his emotions to manipulate people, to look for sympathy. No - John would not ask for pity. He solved problems by removing himself from the situation. Or by using his fists. Or both. 

Sherlock shrugged off the blanket his brother had pulled around his shoulders. He was not in shock, he'd insisted. But he was, a bit, wasn't he? He'd never been so horrifically wrong about something in his life. He had to fix this. But first - they had to find him. Because horrible as the situation had been before, Harry's death had just made it exponentially worse. With Mary and the child now dead and his relationship with Sherlock on rocky ground, Harry had represented his last fixed point. Now that she was gone - he had nobody. And Sherlock was afraid. 

\---


End file.
